


"you called me 'emma'"

by novoaa1



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Introspection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, also sort of a character study on regina ish, but like fluff too, emma being patient and nice which we love, n all that fun stuffs, regina mills needs a whole hug out here, theyre snarky motherfuckers, u know how it be, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Emma, for her part, seems more or less unfazed, if the way that stupidly large grin persists is any indication. “No,” Emma rebuffs smugly, eyebrows wagging goofily in a way that has Regina smiling widely back (dammit) even in spite of herself. “You like me.”“Itolerateyou,” Regina corrects drolly, though she still can’t quite prevent the tinge of affection that worms its way into her tone just the same. “There’s a difference.”“Uh-huh,” Emma acquiesces unconvincingly, eyebrows still wagging obscenely. “Sure.”“I loathe you, Emma Swan.”“Aww. I’m glad I met you, too, Regina Mills.”Or: Post season 2. Regina's having trouble coming to terms with her... experience. (Luckily, Emma's there to help.)
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills & Henry Mills & Emma Swan, Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 164





	"you called me 'emma'"

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this last night and was gonna add to it but like,,,,, imma be real with myself i dont have any inspiration to be doin that, not for this at least
> 
> i might wanna do more later for this pairing tho cause i just started watching once upon a time and it's mad weird but it's aight so far

Regina Mills is not a good person. She knows this.

Perhaps she was, long ago, when she fell for a stable boy with eyes like the deep blue sea and calloused palms that held her far better than her poor excuse for a mother ever had, when a terrified little girl tore past her on a cursed horse dashing roguishly through the open fields and she left her only love behind without sparing him so much as a second glance to go save her, when she truly still believed with all her heart that true love could conquer all, that she’d never be lost now that she’d found hers—perhaps, once upon a time, she wasn’t quite so dark, so malicious and hateful. 

(As the years come and go, she finds herself believing that less and less.)

But, now… well. Now, things are different. They’ve changed, and Regina’s changed with them no matter how vehemently she believed herself to be immune from that sort of sophomoric transience. 

(Personally, she blames Emma Swan for that.)

But, still—just because things have changed, just because _Regina’s_ changed… that doesn’t mean she’s good, even if on some days for the briefest of moments, she’ll stop and think that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t quite mind it—being good, that is. 

(Some times, she’s even foolish enough to think that it’d be _better_ if she were good—happier, though heaven knows she’s never been deserving of such a thing.)

At the end of the day, though, that doesn’t mean all that much, because they don’t bestow the title of ‘Evil Queen’ upon just anyone, and Regina knows damn well she’s committed more than her fair (or _un_ fair, as it were) share of reprehensible deeds to rightfully earn it. 

No, she isn’t good—far from it, really, and she deserves every last goddamned misfortune that befalls her in its wake for just that very reason.

And, really, she’s made her peace with that—or, at least, she most certainly thought she had. 

Because, now she’s here—sitting bolt upright atop her mattress in the dead of night, her nightgown soaked through with cold sweat, chest heaving desperately for a breath of air to make her feel like she isn’t drowning anymore as her heart clenches painfully in her ribcage and her typically so immaculately patterned breathing reaches a state of near hyperventilation and a chilling voice she only vaguely recognizes screams the most awful things in her scattered brain throughout it all that only serves to make her wish Mendell had just _killed_ her while he had the chance, consequences be damned.

She’s supposed to be bigger than this, she thinks— _stronger_.

All the people she lost, all the blood she shed, all the lives she stole—that’s what makes her so, because nothing hurts quite so badly as the first time you do something horrible, or the first time you lose something that breaks you like nothing else ever could, and Regina isn’t beyond admitting that she’s had quite a great deal of practice with both. (Almost enough to render it painless… _Almost_.)

So, she doesn’t quite understand where it was along the way she grew so _weak_ , so feeble that a brief bout of electroconvulsive torture at the fumbling hands of a overgrown moron harboring a child’s grudge is ruining her far more efficiently than Snow White or Prince Charming or even the infuriating Emma Swan ever could. 

It feels like the first time: sitting there frozen in a mess of sheets, dewy sweat beading her brow, her lungs painfully constricting as she’s made to watch her mother tear the steadily beating heart of her beloved from his chest and crush it in the palm of her hand like it meant nothing—like _Regina_ meant nothing. 

It’s like the first time, and God, it hurts so much worse than she remembers, like someone’s tearing pieces from her flesh, like someone’s ripping her limb from limb until all that remains is a mere sliver of who she was, a hollow shell of who she aches to be once more. 

Her body trembles and her lungs feel as if they’re collapsing and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t _breathe_ —and, the worst part? 

She can’t find the will to tell herself that it isn’t her fault, that she doesn’t deserve it, that she’s a _victim_ here—she can’t find it in herself to lie, because that’s exactly what those are: _lies_ ; Regina knows better—or, at the very least, she’d most certainly like to think that she does.

(That doesn’t make it hurt any less.)

She doesn’t go to sleep after that—just stays awake, clutching her knees tightly to her chest and trembling violently in place and forcing herself to just _breathe_ as best as she can; before long, she’s talking to herself. Just little encouragements; nothing too crazy (though she still feels positively mad just the same): _"Breathe, Regina. Just breathe,”_ and _"You’re okay. You’re okay,”_ and _“Pull yourself together, Goddammit. You are not weak.”_ (She’s loathe to note that there’s more than a little bit of her mother in that last one—the callous edge to her tone, the acrid taste of the words on her tongue, the way it effortlessly permeates her very being and curls around the base of her spine like a pervasive chill no amount of earthly warmth will ever quell.)

She just sits there, barely cognizant of the beautiful lilac dawn breaking over the horizon and the rays of golden sunlight that follow, shaking and gasping and begging herself not to cry, letting herself shatter in a bed that doesn’t feel like hers anymore and feeling so fucking _small_ , smaller than she’s allowed herself to be in… well, forever. 

_Breathe, Regina. Just breathe._

⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁

It’s days later—days after that night, where her body and blackened heart and _soul_ shattered just like the very first time, like Daniel was dying all over again and all Regina could do was watch, watch and know in her very bones that it was going to hurt her far worse than anything she’d ever felt, that it was going to _break_ her in a way no force of man or magic or divinity ever could. 

She can’t sleep, she can’t eat, and more often than not, it still feels for all the world as if she can’t breathe—but, she’s managing. (Sort of.)

She should’ve guessed it’d be Emma Swan, of all people, to be the first to notice that something was amiss. 

(Of course, it didn’t make it any less infuriating.)

She receives a sturdy knock at her front door around dinner time—though there’s no dinner to be had as far as Regina’s concerned: nothing simmering on the stove nor browning steadily in the oven, due solely to the fact that she knows damn well she’ll be vomiting it back up (regardless of what she makes) in no time at all.

Withholding a heavy sigh, she pads barefoot over into the foyer, slipping back into her heels that lay sprawled inelegantly at the foot of the staircase as something of an afterthought, then marches tentatively over to the door. 

She doesn’t feel like herself, doesn’t feel _ready_ to be faced with company right now—the heels help somewhat to effect an air of control about her beaten figure (even as they make the soles of her feet ache), and she supposes that there’s something to be said for the fact that she’d managed to dress herself in typical mayoral attire (a satin wine-red blouse and tight charcoal-black pencil skirt that hugged her slim figure) when she awoke, but she’d bothered only with the barest amount of makeup upon her haggard features (not nearly enough to hide the lasting raw pinkish scabbed-over marks she bore low on either temple from Mendell’s rather crude execution of electro-shock therapy) and a smear of coconut oil through her polished hair (only enough to make her look somewhat presentable); she knows very well she looks positively despondent even so.

Still, there’s little to be done about it, now—steeling herself with a long breath, she disengages the deadbolt with a trembling hand and twists the knob with other, pulling steadily as the door opens to reveal—

Emma Swan. 

_Of course_.

The insufferably self-righteous sheriff is standing confidently upon her front stoop, arms crossed stubbornly against her chest, dressed in a worn pair of skin-tight blue jeans and a white tank top (the same one she’d worn that day Regina had first offered her the apple as a rather crude—but undeniably quaint—means of ridding her from Storybrooke for good, if she’s not mistaken), curly blonde locks tumbling wildly across her bare shoulders and a grey streak of what Regina thinks is probably soot running diagonally across her right cheek. 

(She looks _good_ , Regina’s loathe to note—pretty, almost.)

Those all-too-familiar green eyes widen ever-so-slightly when they land upon Regina, looking her up and down with curiosity and determination and the tiniest hint of something Regina can’t quite place—Regina fights the uncharacteristic urge to shrink under the intent examination. 

“Ms. Swan,” she greets instead, lauding herself internally when her voice doesn’t waver. 

“It’s ‘Emma.’ _Just_ ‘Emma.’"Emma rolls her eyes good-naturedly at that, seemingly willing to humor Regina in lieu of her meticulous inspection. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Emma?”

Regina bypasses the question entirely in favor of the one currently lingering at the forefront of her mind: “What are you doing here, Ms. Swan?”

Emma shrugs almost petulantly at that, cramming her hands shyly into either pocket of her jeans, and Regina’s _quite_ sure she’s mistaken but she thinks she sees a slight flush color her fair cheeks as Emma awkwardly replies, “Just, um… checking up on you, I guess.” (The sudden change in the blonde sheriff's composure is more than enough to have Regina positively reeling in its wake.)

“‘I guess’?”

“Do you really have to make everything so difficult?” Emma blurts out, then—but it’s teasing, strangely enough: there’s a gentle smile gracing her lips and a knowing twinkle in her eye and something Regina doesn’t dare believe is affection underlying her playful tone—Christ, Regina thinks she needs to lie down.

“Where you’re concerned?” she quips back more on instinct than anything else, fighting the smirk that’s threatening to overcome her features. "Yes.”

“Hilarious,” Emma deadpans, though the ghost of a smile still lingers upon her face. “Can I come in?”

Regina raises a single brow. “Why?”

Emma opens her mouth and closes it several times in response to that, seemingly searching for the right words. (Regina watches on bemusedly, noting that she looks rather like a stuck fish flopping desperately on land as she does.) “Because you’re Henry’s mother, too, and I, um—Well, you matter, okay? And I want to know that you’re okay.”

(Regina refuses to acknowledge the way she can quite literally _feel_ her heart skip a beat at Emma’s remarks.)

“As you can see, Sheriff Swan, I am perfectly fine."

“You haven’t asked me about Henry yet,” Emma points out, tilting her head to the side as she appraises Regina with wide, searching eyes. (It’s in moments like these that Regina’s faced with the undeniable resemblance between Henry and his birth mother—God, how it makes her heart clench.)

“I trust you to take good care of him.”

Emma snorts. “Since when?”

Regina clenches her jaw. “I—"

“And, since when do you voluntarily let him stay with me for longer than a day?” she challenges fervently, brows furrowed, mouth set in a thin line—and, _damn_ her, but she has a point. 

“Perhaps I am just growing more agreeable towards the substantial place you hold in our son’s life, even despite my personal feelings on the matter,” she protests hastily, but it’s weak, insincere; and, what’s more—they both know it. 

“Regina, please,” Emma entreats, a softness in her tone that very nearly shatters what precious little remains of her limited resolve. “I want to help.”

“You can help by taking care of Henry,” Regina replies quietly, and she curses the vulnerability that seeps into her tone when she adds: “And making sure he knows that I love him.”

“He knows that already, Regina.”

Regina shrugs, doing her very best to front as if the matter is inconsequential to her (even when they both know damn well it isn’t). “I’d have you tell him regardless, Ms. Swan.”

“It’s ‘Emma.’”

Regina sighs at that, leaning herself as casually as she can manage against the door frame—partly because she’s quickly grown tired of this, but mostly because she thinks she’s in danger of quite literally collapsing if she stands unsupported on her own two feet (in heels, no less) for a moment longer. “You’re not going to leave until you’re satisfied, are you?”

A rueful grin spreads across Emma’s ~~gorgeous~~ features. “Nope.”

“Then you may as well come in,” Regina concedes with a suppressed sigh, coming off the doorframe (her weary muscles screaming in agonizing protest all the while) to hold the door with one hand and gesture Emma inside with the other. “It’s getting late.”

⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁

They settle down at the dining table—Emma at the head, Regina just adjacent to her. (Her achey muscles thank her profusely for the break.) “So, wh—"

“Henry’s out at the park, with Mary Margaret and David,” Emma replies before Regina can finish her question, a knowing ( _irritating_ ) grin stretched across her face. 

“You mean, your parents.”

“They’re still Mary Margaret and David to me,” Emma replies back with a noncommittal shake of her head, looking for all the world as if it doesn’t bother her in the slightest… but, Regina knows better. 

“I’m sorry.”

Emma frowns. “Sorry for what?”

“That things are so… " Regina trails off, choosing her next word carefully, "complicated."

Emma heaves a long sigh at that even as the cocky smirk from earlier shifts into something more genuine, something softer. “Thank you, Regina.” Regina’s heart flutters. “But, we’re not here to talk about me.”

Regina reflexively bristles. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Emma counters back, stubborn conviction flaring in her gaze.

“I _am_."

“You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating, either.”

Regina lets out a hollow chuckle at that. “Says who?”

“Henry,” Emma responds matter-of-factly without missing a beat even whilst a forlorn look overtakes her features. “He’s worried about you.”

Regina purses her lips. “He needn’t be.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Regina,” Emma protests exasperatedly with a sigh, wide green eyes silently pleading with Regina to… well, to do _what_ , she isn’t quite sure. “Quit holding back—” Emma pauses, then, pointing emphatically towards herself. “Human lie detector, remember?”

She’s not sure why she says what she says next—maybe it’s the metric tons of exhaustion seeping steadily throughout her mind, or the bone-deep fatigue spreading gradually throughout every modicum of her being that she’s terrified even sleep (if she could ever manage such a thing) won’t fix… either way, her next words are raw and unfettered and _honest_. (A hell of a lot more honest than she was ever planning to be with anyone, much less with _Emma Swan_.)

“What is it you want me to say here, Emma?” she snaps, white-hot frustration churning low in the pit of her stomach. “That I’m not sleeping because I can’t so much as close my eyes for longer than a second without seeing Mendell’s sneering face looming overhead like I’m there all over again, doomed to be at his mercy until he decides I’m no longer of use? That I’m not eating because I can still feel his hands on me and the electricity racking my entire being until it physically _sickens_ me to consume anything but water? Tell me, Emma—is that what you want to hear?” Regina’s voice has grown hoarse by now, her cheeks hot with palpable chagrin, angry tears welling in her eyes that she prays won’t ever fall—not with Emma here, not where she can see. 

Emma’s silent for a long moment—the only sounds in the room is the gasping breaths Regina takes in a desperate effort to calm herself, the quiet sniffles as she fights tooth and nail to keep the tears brimming in her eyes at bay. 

Eventually, though, she speaks, quiet and gentle: “You called me ‘Emma.'”

_What?_

Regina blinks owlishly back at her, flabbergasted. “Excuse me?” (Her voice wavers dangerously on the final syllable; idly, she thinks to herself that it’ll be a bona fide miracle if she gets through this without breaking.)

“You called me ‘Emma,'” the sheriff repeats with a dazed grin, green eyes fixed steadfastly upon Regina’s watery browns. “You never call me that.”

“I’d venture to say that you’re quite missing the point here, Ms. Swan,” she says coolly (with a decisive emphasis upon the title ‘Ms. Swan’), all in all doing her very damndest to wipe that ~~charming~~ vexatious smile off her bright features. 

Emma, for her part, seems more or less unfazed, if the way that stupidly large grin persists is any indication. “No,” Emma rebuffs smugly, eyebrows wagging goofily in a way that has Regina smiling widely back ( _dammit_ ) even in spite of herself. “You like me.”

“I _tolerate_ you,” Regina corrects drolly, though she still can’t quite prevent the tinge of affection that worms its way into her tone just the same. “There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh,” Emma acquiesces unconvincingly, eyebrows still wagging obscenely. “Sure.”

“I loathe you, Emma Swan.”

“Aww. I’m glad I met you, too, Regina Mills.”

⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁ ⌁

Emma stays over that night… and the night after that, and the night after that. (And the night after that.)

They never really talk about it, either; rather, it just sort of… _happens_. 

Regina finds she doesn’t really mind. (At all.)

**Author's Note:**

> thots?
> 
> here’s the link to my 


End file.
